


Hot Pocket Easy

by lifelesslyndsey



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: AU, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Frotting, Hand Jobs, M/M, age crisis, doing a dude on Tom Wellings back porch without even asking his name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifelesslyndsey/pseuds/lifelesslyndsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story of how Mike and Misha met, and then how Mike and Misha met.  Also, it's about hats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Pocket Easy

**Author's Note:**

> This...is not the story I set out to write. It's not beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. It's also not real, but it would be awesome if it was. None of the identities mentioned are mine in any way and I gain no monetary profit from the following. I just get the happy. Payment enough. 
> 
> Takes place in season eight of Supernatural. No spoilers though there is a off-handed, one-line mention of Castiel-Character-Whumpage We're pretending also that Smallville is still ongoing.

**HOT POCKET EASY**

 

 

 

 

Mike has awesome hair. When he has hair, at least. There was that big unmentionable stretch of time when he was unbearably bald. And that little stretch of time after wards where his hair just refused to grow, and Mike was sure he was going to be bald _forever_. Then there had been Tom with his awesome, luscious flowing locks and it took a lot out of Mike not to Nair his shampoo bottles. He didn't, but...it was a close call. Clearly he is a good person.

 

Anyway, his hair, and being bald and then still being bald when he'd rather not be bald. But then it grew, and it was awesome. Not like, not...Padalecki-Awesome, which bypasses even Tom-Awesome. The boy is a walking, talking Pantene commercial and Mike cannot compete with that. Jared's just got the body, he's got the lift....it's disgusting, really, is what it is. But for normal _guy_ hair though, Mike's is awesome.

 

Whatever, so maybe it's just hair and Mike is really glad to have any. _Any_ is awesome.

 

That being said, he does have -on rare occasion- truly _spectacular_ bad hair days. But hey, that's what hat's are for. And if Mike has some awesome bad hair days, he has equally awesome hats. A whole collection of them really; fedoras, top hats, beanies. He has hats. Lots, and lots of hats.

 

Right now, though? One of them is _missing_.

 

It it were just any old base-ball cap, or even one of those dime-a-dozen page-boy hats, Mike would over look it. Probably. It's just...during his time as a bald, bald man, he'd gathered quite the collection. Sure, he'd weened many of them out as his hair began to grow, but that only meant the ones that were left -the one that was missing- were that much more important.

 

Frowning, Mike channels his inner mom and considers where he might have last left it. The problem is, he can't actually remember the last time he wore it (it was a while ago, which is why he wants to wear it now).

 

With a sigh, he picks up his phone, and scrolls through the contacts. “Hey, have you see my hat?”

 

Tom snorts on the other line, and clucks his tongue. “Details Mike, I need details. We've talked about this. Also, _hello_.”

 

Tom is all about social niceties like hello, and goodbye, and pants. Real stickler when it comes to pants. “Hello Tom,” he says, polite as pie. Mike can hear the sound of traffic -honking, swerving, swearing, squealing- and wonders if he caught Tom at a bad time. But then he remembers he has a hat to find and doesn't care. “Hey, have you seen my hat? It's a knitted---”

 

“Wait, the lime green fedora?” Tom replies with a question, and then hisses through his teeth. _Lime green fedora_? Apparently Mike's missing more hats than he thought. “Hey, I got to go. Traffic is shit. I think I saw it at Jared's maybe?”

 

“No not---” But Tom has already hanged up, leaving nothing but a dial tone in his place. Mike scowls, and calls Jensen. It goes to voice mail, which he leaves. Twice, and then texts him for good measure, because it's Jensen's day off and he's probably sleeping but Mike really just wants his hat. _'Hey have you seen my hat?'_

 

His phone rings half a minute later, filling his ears with the dulcet, growling groans of one Jensen Ackles. “If you call my phone again before noon, I will cut you.”

 

“Seriously though, have you seen my hat?” All he needs is a grunt of affirmation. It's not like he's asking Jensen to recite the deceleration of independence.

 

“Mike,” Jensen drawls, rough and sleepy. “It is my day off after eleven days of non-stop shooting. I am seven days away from filming being done. I want to sleep.”

 

“My hat---” Jensen growls, and Mike decides that maybe it would be better to just let the sleeping bears sleep, or however that old saying goes. Or is it dogs? He might be confused. Let sleeping Jensen's sleep, yeah, that works. “Um. Do you think Jared's seen it?”

 

“Dude! I don't know! Is it the one with the fuzzy balls? Because I think that one's in our den. Jared's filming all day,” Jensen grunts, sounding half a step closer to sleeping than awake. “So leave him alone.”

 

Fuzzy balls? Mike has no hat with fuzzy balls. Or..well. He he might. But it's not the one he wants at all. He stares at his phone, having been hanged up on again. Twice! In one day. It's not like it's a record though. But still, _where the hell is his hat_?

 

Mike rummages hastily through his unpacked boxes, chucking hats aside as he goes. He's torn between a hairy Giants hat with ear flaps, or the the beanie he wore in Sorority Boys -blithely stolen from set- with it's faded, mulch-colored stripes. He saves the hairy ear-flaps for a snowier day and goes with the beanie. It molds perfectly to his massive noggin (he's comfortable enough in his skull to admit that it's huge), flattening his fluffy hair down with ease. It does not in any way match what he's wearing, but neither would his missing hat, so that' sort of a moot point. He grabs his jacket, his glasses, and heads out the door.

 

It's two days later when it's slushy and gross out that he thinks about his missing hat again. He'd bought it with Canadian snow in mind. It's knitted, and wool, and he's not Collin Ferral so he can't exactly wear it in LA.

 

“Hey, have you seen my hat?” He asks Tom again, cell phone shoved between his face and shoulder as he pops the top off his coffee at Starbucks, instantly spilling searing hot American down his fingers. Fuck. “It's not green, it's ----”

 

“Is it the pink plaid bowler?” Tom interrupts, and then pants and grunts and Mike can't help but wonder if he's called while Tom was a) pooping, b) jerking off or c) both at the same time but mostly out of boredom. “Because you gave that one to a hooker in Monte Carlo.”

 

“ _No_ ,” Mike replies tiredly. “What the hell are you doing? Tell me you didn't answer your phone while reenacting Free Willy in your pants, dude.” Sure it's something Mike would do, but Tom is clearly a better person than him. He's never even had crabs. Mike didn't know that was possible. He thought it was just like chicken pox. Every one got them at some point. Apparently not.

 

Tom snorts, and then grunts again. “No you dip shit, I'm at the gym. You always call at the worst times.”

 

“I think calling while you were jerking your man-gherkin would be worse,” Mike replies, dumping way more cream than he'll enjoy into his coffee. “Or like, if you were whacking off while squeezing off a butt nugget.”

 

“I wouldn't answer the phone,” Tom replies instantly and then groans. “And I don't do that! I'm not you!”

 

“I get bored!” His mother once told him that his big head was full of big brains and that's why he needed constant entertainment. That his genius simply needed regular stimulation. In actuality, Mike just has pretty severe ADHD. He gets bored, okay?

 

“Look, it's my turn on the squat-thruster,” Tom says, with a put-upon sigh no man can really justify after uttering the words squat-thruster. “I'll call you later.”

 

“Look for my hat!” Mike manages out before Tom hangs up. He realizes a beat to late that he still hadn't told Tom which hat. “Ugh.”

 

He just wants his hat back. Is that so much for a man to ask for?

 

The next two days are busy with voice-overs and casting calls, and meeting with his manager, and doing other dip-shittery. He hangs with Tom on the set of Smallville and ignores the wounded _'you abandoned us, you fuckface'_ look most of the crew gives him. He left under good terms, he's pretty sure, and the producers still love him. He knows he's not terribly older then some of these people, but he really just doesn't want to be playing a twenty-something when he's a forty-something. Not that he'd say that out loud.

 

He snoops around Tom's trailer shamelessly while his buddy wraps up whatever it is he's doing, probably scrubbing the whore-paint off his baby face. He finds way more kit-kat bars then is healthy, and makes a mental note to mockingly sit Tom down for a discussion about _'eating your feelings'_. Beyond that, he finds an old pair of his socks and three hats he didn't realize he was missing. None of them are particular gems, nor the hat he forgot he was looking for.

 

“Hey,” he says, as Tom stumbles in, fresh faced and a little damp. “Have you seen my hat?”

 

Tom eyeballs the four hats laying half-hazard around Mike and gives him a pointed look. “I've seen many of your hats,” he replies, slowly. “Again, I'm going to need more to go on.”

 

“The knitted one with the----” The door to the trailer slams open rudely, because hello, he was talking.

 

“Dudes!” Jensen crows, pushing up into Tom's trailer. “Sweet digs, Tom. Seriously, you little diva, is this where all of Supernaturals special-effects funding goes?” Jared crowds behind him, haggard, but smiling. It's obvious for any one who's filmed small-screen that they are on the ass end of filming for the season. Mike....does not miss it.

 

“Mikey” Jared flops down on the tiny couch beside Mike, and then frowns and fishes a half-eaten kit-kat from under his butt. Tom snatches it away with bright cheeks, and tosses it in the trash. “Jensen told me you were in town.”

 

“Just doing some voice stuff, and a few things with my manager,” Mike explains, leaning back as Tom fishes beer out of his mini fridge. “What are you all up to? Shouldn't you be sleeping while you can?”

 

Jensen sinks down in the nearest chair, and smiles wide and relieved. “We're free. We're done. Got our shit finished early. We gotta come back in a few days to do some voice work, but that's it.” He raises his hand over the coffee table (who needs a coffee table in their trailer? Jensen is right, Tom _is_ a diva) to which Jared responds obligingly with a proprietary fist bump for general awesomeness. “Apparently Misha's dominating the last episode, so they didn't need us. Poor bastards got like, five more hours on set.”

 

Ah, the elusive Mr. Collins. Mike has heard a lot about him, but has yet to actually meet the

man who flawlessly stole at least half of Supernaturals fangirls with single minded intent, and some seriously kicking Twitter-Fu.

 

For reasons he can't really explain -maybe he doesn't want to be disappointed when he actually does meet Misha Collins- Mike has never googled the man. It might not seem like a big deal, but... He's mostly unemployed and gets bored. Has he mentioned how bored he gets? _Really bored_. Reenact Liam Neeson's movie-daughter while wearing a wig and tube top while filming it for posterity sort of bored. So, so, so bored. So really, the fact that he's refrained from googling Misha Collins is serious business. It's just...the J's have talked the man up so much on their own, Mike is pretty sure he couldn't stand the crushing disappointment if google lead him to believe this Collins kid was way cooler than he actually is. How terrible would that be?

 

(And okay, maybe it's because he's terrified this Collins kid might be funnier than him and you know what? Funny is what Mike has going for him. He's not young any more, and your face can only get you so far; hasn't this mother been singing that song for years? No one wants to make friends with their younger, possibly hotter replacement. So maybe, sometimes, _all the times_ , he avoids meeting Misha Collins like the plague. Shut up. Every one's insecure _sometimes_.)

 

Suddenly he remembers that he's suppose to be adding to this conversation. “We should celebrate.” The end of filming is always cause for celebration, because managing to stumble your way through another twenty-two episodes with any kind of success is pretty awesome. Plus, celebrating means booze.

 

Jensen makes a face that isn't exactly a _no_ , but it's for sure a hesitant _yes_. “I don't know dude, we should wait for Misha.”

 

Ah yes. Co-stars. Mike hasn't had any for a while, but he remembers the bond. Hell, he and Tom are still best buds, so yes. Yes they should wait for the Collins kid. Totally. Mike wants booze.

 

“Let's pre-celebrate,” he says with a grin. “Text your buddy and tell him to meet us at that bar on Fifth and Stokes.” Mike likes that bar. The bartender knows them well, and the regulars never pay them much mind. Plus, they have Karaoke and two dollar tequila shots. And every one knows that karaoke and two tequila dollar shots go together like peanut butter and jelly or J2.

 

(Sometimes Mike gets so bored he reads supernatural RPS fanfiction. Sometimes he gets even more board and writes it. Shhhh.)

 

Jared laughs, but it's the kind of laugh that says hey-I'm-on-board-with-this-idea. It's Jensen -and isn't it always- that shoots the idea down with brutal stick-in-the-mud efficiency. “He's got five hours on set left! We'd be wasted before he even left. No, no. We should wait.”

 

“But---” Booze. Karaoke. Celebrating. Jensen's such a wet blanket. Mike doesn't want to say that though because it'll make him sound like a grandma. He might be pushing forty, but he's still got his awesome on. “You're a very moist afghan and you suck.” There. That's better.

 

Jensen throws a kit-kat bar at him -apparently Tom is almost as bad as Jared in the candy department- and laughs at the face Mike makes. “Dude, I need a shower anyway. I'm ripe. We can meet you at the bar in a couple of hours.”

 

“And I need to let the kids out,” Jared confirms, and Mike will concede that it's a good reason (better than needing a shower, in his opinion) to not go straight to the bar. It makes him is Irv like woah, but if all goes well, Irv will be here soon enough. “Which makes it your responsibility to keep Mike from getting wasted to early,” Jared adds, at Tom.

 

Mike huffs, and elbows him in the stomach. “I can handle my liquor, bitch.”

 

It's not true at all. He can _hold_ his liquor, but he can't handle it. Mike is the lightest of light weights, which is actually pretty awesome because it means he can get spectacularly drunk super cheaply. His wallet is twenty dollars lighter, he's a few hours in, and he's pretty much on the smashed side of buzzed. But it's the pleasant sort of smashed, not the oh-god-I'm-going-to-puke-in-my-purse-wait-I'm-a-man-who's-purse-did-I-puke-in sort of smashed. All and all, Mike's just feeling pretty good.

 

Jared is there, which means that Jensen is there, which means that Misha Collins is _probably_ there as well, but Mike's not really in the mind to meet the man. He's got 80's songs to sing, after all. He hooks an arm into Jared's and tugs him a long. “Come along, Padalecki. I'm hungry like a wolf.”

 

“I've got cheese fries,” Jared sort of slurs, a good indication that he's been hitting the two for five Jagger bombs. Good, Mike thinks because...well just because. Good. Good. Good.

 

They hit the little make shift stage, literally in Jared's case, who slams knee-first into the platform before shin-walking to the microphone. Mike only barely manages to get the man to his feet without going down as well. For reasons he can't decipher, Jared is holding a stuffed parrot and wearing a cowboy hat. Which, reminds him. “Hey, have you seen my hat?”

 

Jared's eye balls sort of roll back in their sockets, and it takes Mike a moment to realize that Jared is looking at his own hat. “Um... This hat. It's not my hat. Is this your hat?”

 

“No not that one. It's---” But then the music starts up, words flashing across the over-head screen, and Mike is taken way by the mystical, soothing tones of Duran Duran.

 

It's not until the end of the song when Jared manages to hit Mike in the eye with the brim of his stetson that he remembers his three day epic hat quest again. “Hey!” He says, right into the microphone, words slurred and happy. “Have you seen my hat? It's...It's a hat. It's hat like, with it's hat-ness.” He's pleased with his apt description because he's right, his hat is totally a hat.

 

He's had a lot of tequila tonight.

 

There's a bit of a commotion amongst the crowd. They're looking for his hat. Which, is a nice gesture and all but...he is mostly sure his hat is not here. Well it could be. He comes a lot, though he doubts very much it's here. Still, it could be. Several hats are waved in the air, but one comes flying, hitting Mike square in the face.

 

He catches it against his chest with the hand that isn't sweatily palming the microphone. It's like...fuzzy (much like his head at the moment) and knitted and it has ears. _Ears_!

 

 _His_ hat has ears.

 

His hat!

 

“My hat!” He cries, jamming the thing on to his naked noggin'. It's an odd fit, and maybe it's the tequila, but it feels a little small. Still, there are tassels and ear flaps so clearly this is his hat. His beloved, long lost hat. He holds the tassels lovingly, and rubs the the yarn balls on his cheek with a happy purr.

 

Mike just might be a littlelot drunk. A lotlittle more than he thought anyway.

 

Some one wrestles the microphone from his hand, and Mike only barely catches sight of Jared now shirtless and crooning sweet love songs to his fake parrot. “All right buddy,” Tom says, leading him off the stage. “Think you've had enough.”

 

Tom's cheeks are a brilliant red and his hair is sticking up at odd angles so Mike thinks that maybe Tom's had enough too. Jensen's supporting Jared's weight on his shoulder, his eyes glossy and his face flushed. He's grinning though, red parrot feathers stuck in his hair.

 

“Gonna grab Misha and get this big guy home,” he hollers, way louder than is necessary. “S'good idea Mike. We should do this more often. S'fun. Fun night. Fun.”

 

Ever the octopus, Jared hauls them into an awkward, smooshed, full-body touching man-hug, complete with a few 'I love you man's' and back slaps.

 

“How long are you in town?” Jensen says, still far to loud as he begins to tilt to the left under the weight of Padalecki's hair. Mike just assumes it makes up seventy-nine percent of the kid.

 

Grinning, Mike shrugs, drunk and oddly bashful. He'd been waiting to make the announcement, but hell, every one that matters is right there. “Ind..Indef....for a while?” It comes out mangled, but mostly understandable. “Just finished fliming...Flim... _Filming_ a pilot actually. If it gets picked up, could be seeing a lot more of me.”

 

“Dude!” Tom shouts, right into the side of his damn head. The ear flaps protect his ear drums a little though, so there is that. “That's awesome! Why didn't you tell me sooner?” He's sloppy-drunk-happy, but Mike can see the real pleasure in his glossy eyes. It's okay. He missed Tom too.

 

Jensen and Jared look sloppy-drunk-happy too, both grinning wide and blurry. The blurry part might just be Mike, though. _Everything_ is looking a little blurry.

 

“We've got Rosey back in Can...Can...Canadia,” he heard Tom saying, right before the world went black around the edges. “This deserves a _party_.”

 

The next morning he wakes up face down on the floor of Tom Welling's hallway, with his pants around his knees. He knows without a doubt that he's peed in Tom's storage closet again. This happens every time he crashes drunk at Toms. He can't help it. The storage closet is in the same spot his bathroom is in his LA apartment. Luckily Tom seems to have had the foresight to stick a bucket in there. Last time, Mike taken a leak right into Tom's fancy-pants shoes.

 

His mouth taste like the rotten goat -cheese stuffed ass of a long dead sardine. It's unpleasant, to say the least. He's sort of sweaty, and definitely smelly, and his arms are trapped in his shirt making any range of mobility more or less impossible. Rolling onto his back, Mike wriggles a bit, but his legs are stuck in his pants, so his options are limited. After only managing to scoots half way down the hall, Mike braces a foot against the wall and humps up into the air with a shimmy, working his pants a little farther up his thighs.

 

Next, he flaps his arms a bit in his shirt, but they're both dead asleep, having been trapped beneath his body all night. Numb and tingling, he flails, but only manages to dislodge his shoe from his foot. It arcs through the air and hits him square in the face, and he sort of wishes it was flip-flop season and not ridiculously heavy boot season because _shit_ , that hurt.

 

Mike lets his head thunk back to the floor, and spits out a shoe lace. His arms are still trapped and his pants are still down and all and all, this isn't his finest morning. It gets infinitely worse when he catches site of a little red light out the corner of of one eye. The other eye is obscured by the inexplicably brown fuzzy hat he's wearing.

 

Tom is standing there, at the other end of the hall, I-Phone in hand. “This is the most beautiful thing I've ever woken up to, and I've slept with some insanely attractive people.”

 

Mike is not amused. He tilts his head back just far enough to look at Tom properly, if not upside down. “Your mother doesn't count.”

 

Later, after he's managed (with Tom's laugh-filled help) to free himself from his clothing, and shower, he picks up the hat. It's brown, and knitted, and fuzzy, and not his hat at all. It's an owl. A freaking _owl_. He forces it onto his head with a scowl, because not only is it an owl and not his hat, it's ridiculously small. It's beady little eyes stare at him in the reflection of the mirror, close together and squinting, like it's channeling Chad Murray (Mike refuses to add in that middle name because as far as he is concerned, he owns it more than Chad does).

 

In the kitchen, Tom is staring at his phone at the other side of the table, and judging from the smirk on his face, he's watching the damn video again. “Where did this hat come from?” Mike asks him, tugging on one of the fuzzy brown balls.

 

Tom looks up, laughs, and snaps a picture. Mike's phone buzzes a moment later, so he can only assume Tom sent the picture of him looking stupid in a tiny owl hat. “What do you mean?” Tom replies, belatedly. “It's it yours? The one you were looking for?”

 

“Does this look like a hat I'd wear?” Mike asks, scowling. He tugs one of the braided cords hanging off the ear flap and frowns. “I look ridiculous.”

 

Tom gives him a wide eyed look and takes a sip of his coffee. “This coming from a man who owns his own bras.”

 

And okay, Tom totally has him there.

 

“Thanks for putting the bucket in the closet last night,” Mike says with a sigh. He tugs one of the braided cables of the hat again, and it slips askew on his head.

 

Tom frowns, mid sip. “What bucket? I've never put a bucket in my closet. Why would I do that?”

 

“Um.” What the hell did Mike piss in? “No reason.”

 

As it would turn out, he peed in an incredibly old and ugly soup tureen he recognizes (now) as a Christmas gift Mama Welling sent Tom two years ago. He eyes it warily because it looks heavy and hello, it's totally full of pee. Shrugging, he settles for dumping some bleach in it. Then he gags and flees, eyes watering before he can even get the closet door shut. Because apparently, dehydrated hangover pee and bleach make a very mild but still horrible mustard gas.

 

All and all, not Mike's finest morning.

 

And on top of all that, he still hasn't found his hat.

 

 

 

Misha has some pretty ridiculous hair. It's been known to curl in some places and lay stubbornly flat in others. It's volume is as inconsistent as a geriatric with a faulty hearing aid. He has more cowlicks than he has fingers. Over all, it's just sort of a mess.

 

His first season with Supernatural, the make-up girls had tried valiantly to tame his tumultuous tresses with endless coats of gel, foam, spray, and various other goop. To no avail, really. The ending product always seemed to appear shellacked and unnatural. Eventually, his sweet and adoring fangirls cried out their love of his messy bed head, thus saving him from further follicular mistreatment.

 

Even then, it took another whole season for them to nail down a natural look. Because when it came to filming, natural didn't actually mean _natural_. Pomade, apparently, did the trick. As far as hair products went, it's something Misha never considered, mainly because his knowledge on hair products pretty much ends at shampoo. It has the consistency of a cross between bear-grease and the very same paste he ate in kindergarten and smells like fruity gum and Elmer’s glue. Misha hates touching it. So generally, when left to his own hair-devices, he doesn't.

 

Still, there are times when his hair is an adorable mess and then there are times when his hair is an unholy violation of nature. When it comes to the latter, Misha prefers to skip any sort of hair product and take the effortless route; a hat. Sometimes you have to keep shit simple. That's like, rule one of Over Lording.

 

Today is one of those unholy violation of nature hair days, as often happens when he goes out drinking with Jensen and Jared. Unfortunately for his ridiculous hair, he seems to have lost his hat, probably during his drunken post-filming escapades, leaving the disaster open and available for mocking and mistreatment. The casualties of celebration; many, many, many a brain cell, and his beloved hat. Still, they'd finished filming for the season, and Misha's already got some things lined up during the break. Sure, nothing is set in stone, but he has _options_. That was more than enough reason to drink it up. It's just busy work, really. Victoria is busy with her book-tour and her new girlfriend, so Misha took it upon himself to not be in the way. Mostly for selfish reasons. He doesn't want to put up with her _'Misha, you should really consider settling down'_ talks. Mainly because what can he say? _'I did that, you know, when I married you.'_ Which is pretty much a massive joke.

 

Jared stumbles down stairs looking a little green around the gills. There will be no jaunty five mile run for him this morning, Misha thinks. He stares at the coffee pot as if willing it with his mind to produce morning ambrosia. Unfortunately, it does not. Misha knows this because he's been attempting the very same thing for several minutes now. It's no use. Neither Jared nor Misha understand the delicate nature of the coffee machine, with it's shiny buttons and _pods_. Misha always found that more than appropriate because technology as advanced as Jensen's stupid coffee maker has to be alien. The thing makes one cup of coffee at a time and it doesn't even percolate.

 

If it were up to Misha, he'd make his coffee in a tin pot over a campfire every morning (see; keeping it simple), but alas, modern society frowns on building fires at the kitchen table and Misha can't be asked to move until at least ten AM if he doesn't absolutely have to. Anyway to point here is there will be no coffee until Jensen wakes up.

 

“I could set the smoke alarms off,” Misha offers. It would be easier to do than trying to work the stupid coffee machine.

 

Jared cringes, probably at the sound of Misha's voice. “Thanks, but...no. I'd rather just sit here and suffer in silence.” There's a pause, where Misha lays his head down on the cool table top before Jared speaks again. “Your hair is ridiculous, man.”

 

 

Misha rakes a weak, sleepy hand through his sweaty, messy hair and grunts. “Lost my hat,” he mutters into the table. He _loved_ that hat. He's _pretty_ sure he lost it at the bar which means he'll never see it again. With a groan, he heaves himself up from the table, and shambles toward the living room. “Wake me up when Jensen makes coffee.”

 

Jared mutters his acquiescence, head hanging in his hands. “ _Mugh_.”

 

Jared's couch is Misha's personal eighth world wonder. It's both firm, and soft, and manages to support your lumbar while swaddling you in sued. It's cool to the touch, but also warming. It's a series of contradictions, and Misha loves it dearly.

 

Sinking down into it, he lets one arm hang off the side, as the other buries itself into the unending depths of the cushions, bumping as he goes, a series of half eaten dog biscuits, lost remotes, pocket change, and something wooly and warm. The warm thing grabs his interest and he extricates it with no fineness.

 

It's a hat. It's not _his_ hat, but it's most assuredly a hat. Clearly, the Hat-Gods are shining down on him and his horrible, horrible hair day. He jams it on his head, frowning as it sinks past his brow. Maybe it's Jared’s; it's certainly big enough to cover _that_ cranium. Still, the ear flaps muffle the sound of Harley and Sadie click-pawing their way around the kitchen, and the cheerful, non-hungover birds chirping their unholy morning songs outside the window. It might not be his hat, but it's a good hat non the less.

 

An unmeasurable time later, he's shaken awake, a steaming mug of sweet, sweet morning nectar deposited on the coffee table before his face. Jensen flops mercilessly down on the back of his knees, and grunts. “Morning, bitch.”

 

“Mergh,” Misha replies in what passes for cheerful for the possibly still-drunk. He makes a mild grabby hand at the coffee, but it just seems like a lot of work. In the end, he settles for dragging the coffee table closer to him, hooking a loose hand around the leg and just...breathing at it.

 

Jensen laughs at him, the bastard. “Hey Jay! Get Misha a straw, would you?” Jensen leans far enough over Misha's back to shove is head into the couch cushion. “You big baby.”

 

A moment later, a red and white bendy straw is deposited into his coffee, and Misha smiles, stubble scrapping across the soft sued of the couch. He has awesome friends.

 

All in all, it's one of Misha's better days.

 

He keeps the hat. Neither Jared nor Jensen protest his leaving with on his head, so he assumes it's either not theirs (and thus his by right of finders-keepers) or they don't care. It's way too big, but it's nicely broken in and soft, and warm against the Canadian cold.

 

Six days later -that Friday- Misha finds himself at Tom Welling's house, drinking a beer he isn't fond of and listening to music that makes him feel _old_. It's never a good road to go down, but every once in a while, it creeps up on him. He's not terribly older than Tom, just three years, but...he feels older. Though he's been with Supernatural for four seasons now, Misha wasn't born and bred into acting like some of people around him. He doesn't want to sound like a snob, but these people -his friends he should add- have been smiling into the camera as a profession for quite sometime.

 

That's just not the case for Misha. He's had jobs, odd and other wise. He's worked, not that acting isn't work. But it isn't to him. It's...it's a hobby. He has things he can fall back on, should the whole professional actor thing not work out. He's older, not just in age, but in experience. It makes his thirty-seven years seem impossibly old. He worked for Clinton, and if that doesn't age him (he's seen people at this party not even old enough to vote yet) well his deep dislike for Nicki Minaj probably does. If nothing else, Misha drinks to drown out the thumping bass and decelerations that ' _you a stupid hoe_ '.

 

He downs the rest of his beer and runs a hand through his naked hair. It's not particularly tamed but he'd nixed the hat on fear of losing yet another one. It's only moments later that Jensen bounds up to him, glossy eyed and red cheeked.

 

“Misha!” He crows, looping a well defined arm over Misha's shoulders. He's loose-limbed and grinning, Texas slur slipping through his teeth. “Hey man, you having fun? Come. Come with me---”

 

“If you want to live,” Jared intones, appearing at this other side. His terminator voice is badly marred by what smells like an interesting mix of skittles and vodka. Dear God, they're mixing candy with liquor. He's partying with _children_. Thirty-year old children! Suddenly, Misha wants a Bourbon on the rocks, and badly.

 

Instead, he takes Jensen's glass, filled with an unidentifiable liquid, and downs it. It's tequila -isn't it always?- which makes him sputter and gag a little. Still, it's not...whatever Jared's drinking. He takes some comfort in that Jensen, at least, is drinking like a man.

 

“Shaddup,” Jensen drawls, reaching over Misha to smack at Jared. “No, no. Come one, I have some one I want you to meet.”

 

Misha allows himself to be tugged along, the liquor in his veins slowly making him more compliant. They pass an impressive collection of nearly nude jail bait, every one of them illegally sipping on neon cocktails and dancing animatedly. These are, technically, all his coworkers. They're the Gossip Girls, and the teenage Vampires, and the new cast from 90210 (which God, Misha had been in his twenties when the _original_ aired). He doesn't know their faces, so he can only assume, but yeah...this is the CW family, right here.

 

He takes Jared's drink in all it's neon, fruity glory and drinks that too.

 

“The fuck he go?” Jensen says, just as they hit the kitchen. It's not empty, but apparently whoever it is Misha is destined to meet is not here. Jensen parks Misha near the back door and pokes him in the chest. “Stay here. Seriously, you've been hanging with us for years and you haven't even met....” Jensen wanders off taking both the end of his sentence and Jared with him.

 

He waits, helping himself to the lone bottle of very expensive scotch on the counter. It's not Bourbon, which he'd prefer, and it's not open, which doesn't surprise him. Every ones too busy chugging their candy ass (pun intended) pussy drinks to bother with something as fine as scotch. He roots around for a minute, easing his way through the small crush of bodies in search appropriate drink ware. If he's going to drink this very expensive Bourbon, he's going to do it _right_. He finds a glass in the dish washer and fills it with half-melted ice from the big plastic tub cooling beers on the table.

 

And so there he stands, withing for Jensen and who ever, sipping expensive, unopened scotch and wishing he had a cigarette. That is, he stands there right up until he point that Chad Michael Murray and his ex wife Sophia bust in, bringing with them the dark cloud over Mordor that is their mutual hatred. Why Tom would invite them both is a mystery, but than again, he probably didn't. No one invites Chad anywhere. Chad is like a social disease; he just keeps cropping up, no matter how proactive you try to be. Misha sort of admires that about the man.

 

Misha slips out the back door. Well, _stumbles_ is probably a more effective word, bottle of scotch and now-empty glass clutched to his chest. The mix of liquor is catching up to him, a sloshy beer-tequila-vodka-scotch mix that will not taste pleasant when it most assuredly comes up tomorrow morning. He runs straight smack into the porch rail, the low wooden beam hitting him in the gut, forcing a rough ' _oomph_ ' out of his mouth.

 

“Woah,” some one slurs at him. And then a big, warm palms grabbing the shoulder of his button up just as he nearly takes a header over the porch rail. Never let it be said that Misha is a coordinated drunk. He's really, really not.

 

“Merph,” Misha grunts in reply, shifting until he has is bearings mostly straight. He leans his hip heavily against the rail, and straightens his shirt out with the hand still holding his glass. Looking up, he finds himself staring at a complete stranger. It's not really a surprise, all things considered. Whoever it is, they're not particularly taller than Misha himself (and isn't that a novelty), though they're considerably wider in the shoulders, not that Misha notices except for that he totally does.

 

It's sort of hard not to notice this guy.

 

What gets him is the eyes. They're blue, a perfectly lovely shade, but that isn't it. They're...older. Tired, even. Weary. Something. It shouldn't be nearly as attractive as it is, but it's nice to see that same glimmer on a face that isn't his own.

 

Certainly doesn't hurt that the man is physically attractive as well, with his wide, square jaw and what looks like a very firm chest. He's clearly younger than Misha with a baby face to break hearts. He's got soft looking tufts of brown hair that have been tamed artfully into the sort of sexed up bed-head Misha envies. He's struck with the violent urge to _mess it the fuck up._ With sex. Which would be ironic or something. Not Alanis Morriset ironic though, even if they are in Canada because her ironic is actually just inconvenient. Misha wants to mess this guys sex hair up with sex. It's that kind of ironic.

 

Realistically (read: not drunk), Misha knows the dangers of hitting on people you do not know in situations where sexualities can vary as wide as Mc Donald’s dollar menu choices (every thing is mostly the same and yet still different). Tom Welling's back porch is not a gay club, after all. There is no surety here. Still...he's fairly drunk; drunk enough to probably pass off any overtures as teasing. And if not that, drunk enough to take a punch to the face should it come to that.

 

The man stubs his cigarette out the rail before lighting up another. “Trade you scotch for a smoke,” Misha offers, holding out the bottle. Liquor is probably all that's keeping him warm at the moment. Canada is fucking cold.

 

The man takes it, swigging straight from the bottle. He shakes off the burn, and hands his lit cigarette to Misha, the butt still wet where his lips touched. Misha knows this is how people get like...herpes and stuff. But...he's drunk and the guy does not appear to have any open mouth sores. Not that Misha checked. He's _drunk_. “The good stuff.”

 

“And you shamelessly drank it from the bottle,” Misha replies, poking the man in the chest with the hand holding his glass. Yep, it's as firm as it looks. “Heathen.”

 

The man replies by blowing a smoke ring in Misha's face, and grinning like a shark. His eyes flitter up and down Misha, with one single brow cocked in interest. It's promising. Misha knows when he's being checked out and he is for sure being checked out. Now the ball is in his court. It's up to him to make sure that the interest is returned. This has to be done cleverly, _craftily_. The options are endless. There are coy looks, and sly words. Innuendo's always a good one. And if you're not sure, go with a joke for levity. Misha knows how to dance this dance; he's got years of practice. It's a skill, a gift, a finely honed talent. He's a master. He's a pro. He's got this shit on lock.

 

“So,” he says, taking a sip from his scotch-less glass. Ice smacks him in the chin, slipping from the glass and clacking across the wood porch bottom. “Come here often?”

 

So maybe it's a little less about skill and more about scotch. Whatever.

 

The man laughs, but doesn't look terribly offended by Misha's lame pick-up line. He just grins sloppily, flashing an impressive set of even white teeth, and leans his own hip against Misha's rail. “I frequent many porches.” He's a little wobbly himself, words slurry and hiccuped. He's on the same side of drunk-as-fuck as Misha is, and that? That's just fine by Misha. “But maybe none as awesome as this one right now,” the man adds with a pointed, drunken look.

 

As far as come-on's go it's about as good as Misha's.

 

“Are we flirting?” Misha asks, mostly because he has no idea what to say to _that_ and really at this point, he's tired of playing around. Apparently they're both too drunk to struggle for any kind of smoothness. He makes a big show of looking over his shoulder slowly, as if expecting there to be some one else, and then back to the guy.

 

The man laughs, mouth still pulled up into a smile. Misha kind of wants to mess that up too, just like the guys hair (with sex, mess them both up with sex). “Yes, but not well.”

 

Misha laughs at being called out so blithely. “If I wanted to put in effort, I'd go grab me some jail bait,” he replies, jerking his head toward the back door where -to no surprise- Sophia and Chad are angrily making out against the stove. Even after all these years....

 

The guy's smile shifts half a step to the left, entering into smirk territory. “So you're looking for something easy?” He asks, and it comes out far more flirty than anything they've managed to slur out yet.

 

“Paris Hilton easy,” Misha replies, gesturing wildly with his empty glass. More ice flings out, but he ignores it. “ _Hot pocket_ easy.”

 

“Well, I don't know about hot pocket easy,” The guy takes the glass from Misha's hand and sets it on the rail beside the bottle. He steps in closer, crowding up against Misha shamelessly. Yes, this. _This_ more than makes up for the shitty beer, Nicki Minaj, and God-I'm-Old crisis. The promises of orgasms can do that. They're pretty much a cure-all. “I can promise you now that I won't be done in three minutes, and I'll definitely leave you satisfied.”

 

He can't help the giggle that escapes his mouth as he lets his body be tangled up with this stranger. “Well, as long as you don't burn my mouth, I'm good.”

 

“Well, I am damn hot.” He walks Misha back until they're hidden in the shadowed corner of the porch, and out of the porch lights wide shaft of light. “And low in saturated fats and calories. Not that it looks like you need to worry about that.” He gives Misha the most ridiculous leer he's ever seen, followed up with an impressive Blue Steel. Misha finds himself liking the guy a little.

 

“This is getting a little cheesy,” Misha comments, pushing his hips forward. He's not disappointed in what he finds. The guy is hard, dick scoring a heated line against the front of Misha's jeans.

 

The man grins; Misha can feel it against the skin of his throat. “I'm more of a sausage person, myself.”

 

“That's probably for the better,” Misha laughs, and kisses the guy if only to end the barrage of snack-food related innuendo. He makes it rough because he wants to, because he can because this is a man. He might even bite a little, fucking it up just like he wanted. “Nuff' with the lines. I'm a sure thing. Undo my pants already.”

 

 

“Hot pocket easy,” the guy laughs to himself, but does as he's told.

 

And then? Then Misha has a big, hot hand on his dick and a rough, insistent tongue in his mouth and life is pretty good at thirty-seven. He forgot earlier in his melancholy navel gazing that if thirty-seven has brought him nothing, it's brought him this; confidence. He's got no illusions to what he has on offer and he knows his way around a body. Thirty seven is twenty years of sexual exploration. And oh how Misha has explored. Explored and conquered.

 

With that in mind, he throws himself into it with a happy, drunken moan, wasting no time in sinking his hands in the mans hair, just like he wanted too. As soon as Misha has the guys hair and mouth as fucked up as he can manage, he drops to his knees.

 

“What are you doing?” The guy nearly squeaks as Misha yanks his zipper open, and shoves his pants and boxers straight down to his knees.

 

He slides his hands up the guys bare thighs, more for show than much else. “Tying your shoes,” Misha snarks, before wrapping his hand around the hot, hard length before him. “Honestly, I'm a little curious as to what you think the other here options are.”

 

And with that, he goes to town. _Down_ town.

 

Misha has always balked at people who've claimed any kind of strategy when it came to cock sucking. It isn't exactly an art form. In fact, in his humble opinion, forcing it into any kind of form only serves to make it boring. The best blow jobs are the messy, wet, sloppy ones. No rhythm, no finesse. Because what made a blow job _better_ than fucking was the _inconsistency_. A pussy stayed a pussy, an ass an ass. But a mouth could mix it up. Suck it hard, suck it fast, deep throat, half-hand-half-mouth; you didn't need a fucking itinerary, you just had to get creative.

 

Misha likes to keep it loose; open mouthed, open throat, taking it deep, with just a bare scrape of teeth. He sinks down until he bottoms out, keeping his mouth lax, drool slicking his chin and subsequently, the balls slapping his chin. He sucks till he can't fucking breath, black spots dancing before his eyes, the subtle hints of oxygen deprivation making his dick that much harder.

 

What gets him, even on this end of a blow job, is the sounds. The sloppy wet sucking sounds, the moans, the groans, the helpless whimpers. Some of them are his own, vibrating across the cock stuffed in his mouth. His fingers clench tight on the thighs beneath them, fingers biting crescent moons into soft, sparsely haired flesh. Misha _loves_ sucking cock.

 

If women had dicks, he'd have probably taken his marriage more seriously. Then again, if Victoria had a dick, she'd still prefer pussy just as much as she does now.

 

He's surprised when a hand comes down to join his, pushing Misha's finger away. He would have protested, but his mouth is still full of dick. So instead, he sucks harder, pushing down until his teeth scraped against fingers that aren't his.

 

“Fuck.” The groan nearly echoed in the late night, rough and broken. Fingers lace through Misha's hair, jerking slightly like they aren't sure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

 

Misha thought it was obvious. So he sucks harder.

 

“Shit, wait, _fuck_.”

 

Suddenly he's being hauled back up. “Sorry, sorry. Gonna come. Fucking hot pockets. I can last longer than three minutes man, but your _mouth_. Your mouth---” Misha preens because who doesn't want to be told they give good head? His newly acquired friend is nearly frantic as he shoves Misha's jeans down. They trap his thighs together and he has to grab the rail behind to to keep from stumbling but none of that really matters because his brain has short circuited. “Yes this, _fuck_.” He crowds even closer to Misha, as close as possible with his hand trapped between them. With his mouth tucked into Misha's jaw, hips jerking forward in long, hard thrusts, he groans. “I'm gonna come all over you.”

 

 _Gross_ , half his mind thinks. The other half is screaming ' _oh-holy-hell-hot-damn_ '.

 

Big hands, he thinks. That's about as far as his brain gets before dying a little death. The guy's got both their dicks in his hand, wet with pre-come. It occurs to Misha that they're humping on Tom Welling's back porch. But fuck it, he's got a belly full of scotch and a hand on his dick; Misha is not going to complain about this particular drunken fumbling. He can already feel his balls tightening up -way too soon, so much for stamina with age- as hurt little whimpers, rough as sand paper, curl out out of his throat.

 

Right as Misha comes, the guy kisses him. Not like the previous kisses. Those were...those were _foreplay_ for this kiss. This kiss is a mouth-fuck, there's no better way to describe it. His mouth is being _fucked_ , with deep, sharp thrusts and slick, wet strokes. And hell, if this guy fucks anything like this kiss, Misha should get his number because damn. If he wasn't already coming, he'd have come.

 

“Oh, God damn,” the guy groans, right into Misha's mouth. “God damn, _god damn_.” He has by far the prettiest o-face Misha has ever seen; lashes fluttering, mouth open just enough to be hot and not weird, flushed cheeks, all followed up by a coy little lip bite and soft sigh, like he hadn't just busted a nut all over Misha's stomach.

 

To his surprise, the guy slicks his palm through the mess on Misha's skin, gathering up their mutual offerings and wipes it on his own jeans. It's about as far as after-care as you can get sequestered in the darkest corner of a back-porch, but Misha is oddly touched, regardless. That could be the booze though.

 

He tucks Misha's cock away, and zips him up, still crushed up against him like there's no other option. “So.” He puts his hand on Misha's hip, and smiles, lop sided bruised mouth looking just as inviting now as it did ten minutes ago. Misha kind of wants to put his dick in it, and mourns the fact that he didn't get the chance. “They make breakfast hot pockets.” He laughs as he says it, right against Misha's ear.

 

Misha laughs too, drunk and loose and fucked out. “Is that an invitation?” He leans back to look at the guy with what he hopes is a flirty half-smile (he's pretty drunk, it could end up looking like he's having an stroke or something), ignoring the pain in his lower back where the rail is biting into his flesh. _Worth it._

The guy nods. “Not a very good one, but yes.” 

 

“I'm too drunk to think up anything suitably coy or witty,” Misha says, with a suitably mourning tone. “But yeah. Yes. Let me just find my buddies, let them know I won't be needing a ride.”

 

“ _I'll_ give you a ride,” the guy replies, and Misha laughs because yeah, he walked right into that one. “I'll wait here.”

 

It isn't until he's walked off, leaving the guy on the back porch that he should really figure out his name. _That guy_ seems like a mouthful to moan.

 

“There you are,” Jared finds him near the front door, looking a little frantic and less drunk than when Misha left him, not an hour prior. “Dude, some guy got in a fight over this chick and Jen tried to break it up. Got popped in the nose. It's bleeding like crazy.” And now that he looks, Jared's shirt is totally covered in blood. “Gonna take him up to the emergency room. Gotta get it set; can't be messing up his pretty face. Actually, I think that's in our contract. You need me to find you a ride?”

 

Misha hesitates and even if it's only for a second, he'll feel super shitty about it later. “Dude, I'm coming with you.” He's not going to blow Jensen off for a hook-up. That's just shitty. “Let me just...I...Give me a minute?” He settles, because any other explanation would take to long.

 

“Yeah sure. Chad's driving, he's the only sober person I could find. He got here late, and only had like one beer before Sophia found him---”

 

“Yeah I caught most their fight,” Misha says with a laugh. “You go get Jen, I'll meet you out front. I just gotta tell some one bye. Five minutes, tops.”

 

Jared gives him a curious look, but lets him go in favor of babying Jen. Misha burst through the back door with explanations on his tongue, but there's no one there to listen to them.

 

 _Shit_ , he thinks. He doesn't _immediately_ think the guy blew him off, after all it was he who invited Misha to stick around. But...he just doesn't have time to look for him. With a sigh and some serious regret, he lets the back door slam behind him as he heads out front, where Jared is holding a towel against Jensen's blood covered nose.

 

“You get everything squared?” Jared asks from the back seat as Chad fires up the car, bitching about hot ass ex-wives under his breath. Every one ignores him.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Misha lies. “Shit, should we have gotten him some ice or something? For the swelling?”

 

“I'm more worried about the blood,” Jared says, though it looks like it's eased up a bit. “Plus, Tom found Mike and had him bring some out to the car. He would have himself, but he was still trying to kick the dumb ass that punched Jensen out.”

 

“Rosenbaum?” Misha had never met the guy, but he'd heard stories. He was definitely some one Misha wanted to meet, but it just hadn't happened yet. He would never admit it, but the appeal of befriending some one his own age certainly had it's appeal. Plus, if Jensen and Jared were to be believed, their interests ran along the same lines. “Am I ever going to meet that guy? I'm starting to think you guys made him up to give me some sort of a complex.”

 

“That's who I was looking for when I dragged you off to the kitchen! I should have known Mike wouldn't wait. He gets bored.” Jensen laughs and then groans rather wetly. “ _Ow_.”

 

 

They got Jensen patched up, nose freshly reset and belly full of Vicodin. Jared had put Jen to bed, mainly because Misha was still drunk enough to be more of a hinder than a help.

 

The next morning went exactly as he had expected. He spent the first half an hour after waking vomiting up an impressive combination of liquors. Jared had stumbled his way in half way through the dry-heaving portion, to leave Misha a bottle of water and some Tylenol. “Why are you wearing Mike's hat?” he'd asked, tugging the red braid of the monkey hat Misha had jammed on his head to muffle Sadie and Harley's whining.

 

“Rosenbaum?” Misha croaks, looking up from the toilet. “Oh, I don't know. I found it in the couch last week. I lost my owl hat at the bar.”

 

Jared laughs, and then they both wince. Bathrooms echo, the terrible fuckers. “Dude, you threw it at Mike at the bar! While we were on stage. Don't your remember?”

 

“I did? Damn, I loved that hat.” He certainly does not remember. “That was Rosenbaum?” Misha sort of remembers. Like last night, it's all sort of a blurry mess. Oh, Misha remembers last night, but That Guy's face eludes him. He just remembers big hands and a firm chest and eyes that looked as world-weary as Misha felt. Oh and orgasms. Misha remembers orgasms, both his and That Guy's, respectively. He of the Pretty O-Face.

 

“The one and only,” Jared says, around his toothbrush. “Dude, you know what? I bet that's the hat he's been looking for. You should give him a call.”

 

He takes Misha's cell out of Misha's pants where they've been abandoned on the bathroom floor. Misha had wriggled out of them mid-puke. What can he say? He likes to suffer in comfort.

 

He eyes his phone a little warily. Michael Rosenbaum. Misha does want to meet the man; the Jay's seem to think it's necessary for human survival, or something, considering the ferocity in which they've been attempting to make this happen. In fact, it's their attempts that make Misha squirm awkwardly. He isn't secure by nature. He's solid in himself. But, Jen and Jay have been trying to introduce him to Michael Rosenbaum for four years now. Not for lack of opportunities. Case in point; this week alone, Mike and Misha were under the same roof twice, and yet... You'd think hanging with the same circle of friends, they'd naturally end up in meeting-vicinity. But they never do. Misha has theories.

 

Michael Rosenbaum clearly hates him.

 

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks, grabbing his phone. Misha wants to know why.

 

--

 

Mike tosses last nights jeans in the wash with a sigh. Sure, most of the night was pretty fuzzy, but you don't just forget spectacular head, followed by mutual orgasms be cause you had a few to many. At least, he doesn't. Damn, dudes give the best head. That Dude, in the particular. That Dude knew what he was about. That Dude. He made a mental note (one he'd probably forget) to ask for a damn name next time he hooked up. He considers asking Tom but he can't exactly remember what the dude looked like. Just...very messy hair and sexual innuendo's about hot-pockets. It's not much to go on, at any rate.

 

But damn, he was kind of pissed. The worst of it was, he didn't know if he was mad at himself or the dude for blowing him off. Mainly because he wasn't sure if the dude did blow him off. Some how, this was Jensen's fault. Damn him for being all chivalrous and shit and breaking up fights for crying girls. Ugh.

 

He'd been drunkenly devastated when he'd raced back to the porch after taking Jensen ice to find it empty. He'd waited, just in case the dude hadn't come yet, but...well, you can only on a porch outside in the middle of the night in Canada for so long before your balls crawl back up inside you in protest. The guy hadn't came, at least, not while Mike had been waiting.

 

He'd knocked back quite a bit of the scotch before calling it a night, crawling his ass upstairs and passing the fuck out in Tom's guest room.

 

His phone chimes and he digs it out of the pants he'd just dropped in the washer. It's pretty much a wonder that any one considers him a grown up. It's picture message from an unknown number, and he clicks the button with not a little leeriness. One never knew what his friends would send.

 

It's pretty innocuous though, as picture messages go. A blurry shot of half a dude's face, more importantly, half a dudes face wearing his hat. His hat!

 

The text reads, _'Return the Owl or the monkey gets the spin cycle. Willing to negotiate. Call me'_.

 

The appropriate response would be _'Who the hell is this?'_ but Mike has never been terribly appropriate. He abandons his attempts at laundry and hauls it to the kitchen, rummaging through the drawers until he finds a note book. The keyboard on his Blackberry is still a little wonky from the last time he washed it, so he scrawls his response across the paper - _'It's made of wool, you heartless bastard'_ \- and snaps a picture, making sure to scowl behind the notebook.

 

 

 

 

He hesitates for all of three seconds before dialing the number. It picks up on the first ring. “I believe you have something that belongs to me,” he says, before laughing. “No, but seriously, who is this? How'd you get my number? How'd you get my hat? How'd I get your hat?

 

“Hey, hi, hello. Um, this is Misha. Misha Collins. I found your hat in Jared's couch about a week ago,” he explains. Misha Collins, Mike thinks with a laugh. He's talking to Misha Collins. Who has his hat. _Fuck you very much, life._

 

“How'd I get your hat?” Mike asks, vaguely recalling the karaoke. Mostly, he just remembers waking up with it on his head.

 

Misha Collins laughs. “I threw it at you, apparently. I don't really remember. So uh...we should like, trade off or something. Though I've grown fond of the monkey. I might fight for partial custody. Weekends at least. Maybe a holiday or two.”

 

“I've grown attached to the owl as well,” Mike admits. It's not his monkey hat, but it's served him well. “Actually, I might have really grown physically attached. Your head is _really_ small. What are you? Fun-sized? This hat would have barely fit over my left nut until I re-molded it with my skull.”

 

“Excuse me?” Misha Collins makes an indignant noise, and then laughs. “I could probably smuggle inexpensive prescription medication over the Canadian boarder in your hat. Seriously, you could offer it's services to birth overly large litters of Saint Bernard's. I'm pretty sure you've got the back door to Narnia in this beast. When I'm not cowering beneath it's mighty girth, I use it to store my laser-discs, and you know how big _those_ things are.”

 

The noise that Mike makes in response is...unholy. Fucking Misha Collins. He's _funny,_ dammit _._ _Laser discs._ “Alright, alright. You win this round Collins. Christ, how have we never met?” 

 

Misha Collins, probably better known as Misha, gives the audible assimilation of a shrug. “I don't know; I mean, I've looked for you. You're like a ninja, or....” His words trail off, and Mike squirms. They haven't met because Mike...tends to disappear when presented with the option. New and shiny and still relevant; that was Misha Collins (even after four seasons with the CW). Mike was...slowly being relegated to  _Classic_ . And okay, maybe it was all in his head, but his head was a pretty powerful and frightening thing. “You free this week? Or should I leave the goods in a paper bag by a bench in the park or....or mail it...across town...” Oh, so apparently this Misha Collins guy was not so unaware of Mike's evasiveness. 

 

“What? No. Of course not. We can totally meet up.” Mike doesn't want to look like a douche bag, even if he sort of is one. After all, he's been silently judging Misha Collins for years, and he's never even laid eyes on the dude. But, you can only hear Jen and Jay sing the dude's praises for so long. It's like when your crush starts talking about their boyfriend. You don't need to know her to fucking  _hate_ her. Not that he hates Misha. He's not that far gone. “Um. This week. Shit, this week...is not a good week.” He's actually busy with his actual job, and isn't that new?

 

But naturally, it sounds like a brush off. 

 

“I could send it over with Jensen or Jared?” Misha offers mildly. “I mean, it wouldn't be an issue or anything. It's okay, you know. Whatever.” God, funny and nice and willing to over look obvious douche-a-tude. “But like, did I offend you or something?” 

 

Fucking lovely. Funny, nice and ballsy enough to call Mike out on his shit. That's pretty much Mike's dream date. Naturally, Mike plays clueless. “What? No. I've never even met you dude.” 

 

“Yeah,” Misha drawls, and then sighs. “I sort of love my owl hat. Your monkey is lovely, but...look, do you want me to leave it at the Jay's? I'll shove it back in the couch where I found it. Just leave my hat when you pick it up.” 

 

“No!” Mike says, to loud and to fast, before Misha can hang up. “No, I mean, sorry. Really. I'm not...no, well I am pretty much a giant dick, but you don't have to leave it at Jen and Jared's. We should meet up. Coffee or something. This week is just really sucky. I have this---” 

 

“Shit,” Misha swears, and Mike thinks maybe he said something stupid again. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Jensen told me you were here working on a project. Of course you're busy. I shouldn't have assumed---” He huffs, sounding exactly as frustrated as Mike feels. “Sorry. Can we start over? Clean slate. Tablu Rasa.” 

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Mike replies vehemently. It's not every day you get offered to a second chance at not looking like a spectacular ass-hat. “Look, this week is ass. I'm meeting with the cast for this new project, and I have to eyeball the script and it's just...it's ass. But next week? Like, Tuesday morning? Not this Tuesday, but next Tuesday. Wait, not Tuesday, uh---”  _Goddamn it._ “That Tuesday I have to get my dog. My friend is driving him up from LA and---” 

 

“I love dogs. Dogs walk,” Misha cuts him off, and then snorts. “I mean, I assume they do. All the dogs I've met have been relatively mobile via legs. What I'm saying here, poorly I am willing to add, is that we could walk your dog. Long trip like that, he'll...she'll? It'll probably want to get out and run, anyway. So we could do that.” He pauses. “Over coffee. I mean, unless you want..uh. Like, time with your dog, or something.” Awe. He's even providing Mike with an out. Stupid considerate jerk. Mike can hardly stand him. 

 

“No,” he ventures. “No, no. That would work. So, uh. Tuesday morning. I'll bring the dog.” 

 

“I'll bring the coffee,” Misha says, easy as pie. “Do you have a park you favor?” 

 

They settle the details and Mike resigns himself to meeting the apparently lovely Misha Collins not this Tuesday but next Tuesday over dogs and coffee. Ugh. 

 

Monday (this Monday, not next Monday), he falls into bed after a long day on set. It's late, and he's bored. Flinging Misha Collin's owl hat off his bed, he laughs when it lands perfectly on his dresser. He can feel it's beady little knitted eyes staring at him from across the room, and grabs his phone to snap a picture. He doesn't know what possess him, but his fingers are hitting send on the picture message before he can even process it. 

 

 

A moment later, his phone rings and Mike doesn't have to check the ID to know it's Misha. There's no point in ignoring it. Misha knows he's home with his phone in hand. “It's staring at me,” he says, in way of greeting. 

 

Misha laughs. “Why is your lamp wearing a ginger wig?” As far as greetings go, it's about as good as Mikes. 

 

Mike looks up and sure enough, his lamp  _is_ wearing a ginger wig. “It's considering Daphne Blake cos-play.” His eyes stray from the lamp to the owl hat and suddenly he feels himself go hot all over. Sitting half beneath the owl hat, innocuous as a neon sex toy can, is a big green dildo. There's a small chance of course that Misha didn't notice. It's half hidden (the half with the balls, Mike suppose that's some sort of blessing) and Misha seemed more interested in Mike's wig. 

 

“So,” Misha says, after an inordinately long silence. “.....How long have you had this Shrek kink?” 

 

Mike laughs, as he feels his cheeks burn. If any one else -Jensen, Tom, Jared, hell even Katie- had seen his big neon green dildo he bought more for novelty than use (that's not to say he hasn't tried it but whatever) he wouldn't be embarrassed. But Misha doesn't know him, doesn't know where to gauge Big Neon Sex Toys on the scale of weird. For Mike, it hardly pings the scale. For Misha? He has no idea. 

“How do you know it's Shrek? The Hulk is green. Maybe I've got it bad for Lou Ferigno.” As embarrassing as it is to be caught harboring weird sex toys, Mike's all about Laughing It Off. It you can't laugh at yourself, you're just a sad little fuck, in his opinion. 

 

“Or Mike Wasoski,” Misha replies, and Mike has to respect a man who can admit to watching Monsters Inc. 

 

“Or Yoda.” 

 

“Or Piccolo.” 

 

“I have better taste than Dragon Ball Z.” Dear god, they're bantering, and it's not awful. Something odd and uncomfortable unfurls in Mikes stomach. He might have to actually admit Misha is an okay guy. 

 

Misha snorts.“Yeah well, I could have said Kermit.” 

 

“He's a little too goatse for my taste,” Mike replies, easy as breathing. He kicks his shoes off and eyes the clock. It's half past ten, and he's going to sleep? God, he is an old person. 

 

“Goatse?” Misha echoes, clearly not understanding the reference. 

 

Mike feels himself smirking. “Google it,” he says, and hangs up. 

 

It's not until the next day (this Tuesday, not next Tuesday), that Misha calls him back. “You are a cruel, cruel person.” Mike sort of thinks it's becoming a habit, their lack of proper greeting. He approves. 

 

He can't help the laugh that escapes him as he steals a bagel from craft services. “Hey, I could have asked you if you wanted to go out for blue waffles or if you were interested in joining the new campaign, lemon party.” 

 

“Just to be clear, these are all things I should  _never_ google, right?” Misha asks, his voice a comfortable mix of wary caution and amusement. “God. I hate the internet.” 

 

“That's a lie,” Mike rejoins. “I hear you rule at Twitter.” 

 

“Twitter is not the internet,” Misha firmly denies. “Twitter is my minion watering hole. I generally avoid the internet after Vicki emailed me several links to Dean-Castiel-Sam fan art. It's amazing, what these preteens can do with Photoshop.” 

 

“Vicki?” Mike ventures, around a mouthful of bagel. 

“My wife, Victoria Vantoch.” There's a pause, just half a beat. “She's doing a tour right now for her new book about single sex threesomes. She's inordinately interested in the possibility of me sleeping with my co-stars. I keep telling her the Jay's only have chubs for each other, but....I suppose a girl can fantasize. But yeah, Vicki. She's a lesbian sexpert. ” 

 

“She's an expert on lesbian sex?” And wow; where do you find a wife like that, exactly? Mike would really like to know. 

 

“No,” Misha huffs, and laughs. “Well, I suppose she's that too. But no, she's a sex therapist who is also a lesbian.” 

 

Mike makes a ridiculous noise, because wait, what? “You married a lesbian?” 

 

“It's unconventional, but we make it work,” Misha replies blandly, and then laughs. “No, but seriously. Her green card expired and they were going to ship her back to Russia. I've known her most my life, so it wasn't much of a problem to get hitched. We got married in a supermarket. My dress made my ass look fat and my make up was whoreish, but over all it was a lovely affair. They had free tacos.” 

 

“Wow,” Mike says, choking on his laugh. “I have no idea if you're being serious or not.” It seems a little farfetched, but then again no one believes Mike when he tells people he was once forced to beat a goose death with a Panda Express tray when it viciously attacked him in the parking lot of a Trader Joe's. It's the singular most horrifying moment of his life. The thing had not gone down easy, and Mike may have cried a little because he  _killed_ it. Blood and down still haunt his dreams. 

 

“Oh no, it's funny because it's true. Every word. The lesbian. The supermarket. The tacos. I have pictorial evidence.” 

 

 

From there, they talk every evening. It's a friendship, Mike thinks with a vague sense of horror. He's friends with Misha Collins. Misha Collins is actually pretty awesome. A lot awesome, if Mike is honest. The kind of awesome that Mike might like. Like a lot. And if sometimes he wears Misha's owl hat, it's just because it's hat season, and he's finally gotten it broken in for his head. It has nothing to do with him apparently spontaneously turning into a teenage girl. Nothing at all. 

 

(So maybe his irrational loathing for a man he's never met has morphed into horribly mortifying crush on a man he's never met. It's not like it's mutual. Probably not. Misha's not even gay. Probably not, anyway. Mike can't think of a tactful way to ask, and he doesn't know Misha quite well enough to go with his usual un-tactful way. 'Hey, do you like dick?' Might be a bit much, this early in their friend-lation-ship.) 

 

He has to work tomorrow, and Misha has some sort of thing as well, but their in bed talking anyway. “Tell me something about you,” Mike demands, sleepily. “I just have what the Jay's told me. Don't get me wrong, they bragged the shit out of you.” 

 

“Don' tell me that.” Misha's grimace is audible in his tone. “No one wants to be oversold, you know?” 

 

“Eh, you're living up to the legends so far.” Mike goes for nonchalant, but it probably comes out more like  _'you're so awesome, lets have ass-babies'._ “Anyway, tell me something.” 

 

“Well. What do you want to know? What have Jen and Jay told you?” 

 

Jen and Jared have actually told him a lot of things, but for some reason, his brain picks the most inappropriate one possible. “Can you really suck your own dick?” There's just enough interest in his voice to be inappropriate. 

 

“Um.” Misha pauses on the other line, long enough that Mike worries he hung up. “No, not really. I mean, I can get my dick in my mouth but the over all position hurts too much for me to get it up and enjoy it.” 

 

Misha sounds so awkward, Mike is pretty sure he'd have to hug the man were he here. “Well, swallowing your own come is probably pretty gay anyway.” 

 

“Who says I swallow?” Misha replies, and there isn't quite enough laughter in his voice for it to come out as a joke. Oh sure, it comes out  _teasing_ . “Maybe I'm not that kind of girl.” 

Mike swallows. No, he doesn't actually swallow...well, yes he does, but not just then. He  _gulps_ . 

 

Misha snickers. “Just kidding. I totally swallow.” 

 

And then the little fucker hangs up. 

 

Mike may or may not swoon a little. Alright, he totally does. Misha is awesome. And apparently he swallows. 

 

 

****

 

Misha is a dreadful combination of nervous, excited, and sleep deprived. The casting people had loved him, and he'd had been guaranteed the part on the spot. Still, he's meeting with the directors today. He'll be playing the grungy token white guy named Tad in a new, up and coming comedy about a young man who inherits a boarding house full close-knit, typically off-beat 'losers'. It's a little bit Big Bang Theory meets How I Met Your Mother meets That 70's Show, and Misha is already in love. 

 

He won't start shooting for another week, and even then, his part is smaller. He won't act in every episode, and knows that he's more for comedic relief than anything else. Still, with Castiel's recent brutalization in Supernatural, he can only wonder how long his Angel persona will be around. If anything, it will be nice to play something more relaxed and funny. Don't get him wrong, he loves playing Castiel, but beyond Supernatural, for reasons he can't explain, he keeps getting cast to play violent serial killing nut jobs. It's enough to give a guy a complex. 

 

He tugs on the red braided cable laying across his chest. Yes, alright, he wore Micheal’s hat. He tells himself he wore it because it suits his character –an oddball little stoner in ripped up jeans and a dirty hoodie- and not because he can totally hide behind it. 

 

Today, he's here to meet the directors, pick up his script, and get a run-down with the Wardrobe department. Genevieve Corteses is there, and she waves at him brightly from where she's being measured. She's playing a compulsive liar named Olivia who lives across the hall from Tad. It's a relief to know that he's coming into the game with a ready-made friend. He makes small talk with some of the other cast members, happy to see that about half of them are fairly unknown -like him- while the other half are familiar-enough faces.

 

After he settles his score with the Wardrobe -he'll be wearing the expected ripped up jeans and dirty hoodies- he allows himself to be frog marched to another room where he'll be meeting the directors and writers and other apparently important people. 

 

“Mr. Collins.” The director with a rough back pat. He's familiar; Misha is fairly sure the guy is an actor. “I'm Adam Goldberg, one of the directors for the show. Just got off the phone with Casting. They've got nothing but good things to say about you. Come come, have a seat. We just want to get you your script, answer any questions you might have, and go over your character really quick. Need to wait for the other director, but in the mean time, can I get you a drink?” 

 

He says yes, more to be polite than any actual thirst, palming the cold bottle of water Adam slides across the table. It's oddly warm in the small room, so he peels the monkey hat off, shoving it in the front pocket of his hoodie, and ruffles a hand nervously through his ever-ridiculous hair. 

 

The door smacks open a moment later, and a vaguely familiar man steps in. “Sorry, Adam. My mom called and----” He pauses, eyes on Misha as his mouth curls up onto a strange smile. “You.” 

 

It's Michael Rosenbaum. If the voice hadn't given it away, the owl hat decorating his head would have. Misha's just about to say something - _why didn't you tell me you were directing_ \- when Adam cuts him off. “You know him?” he asks Mike. “He didn't say.” 

 

Misha would explain that they share mutual friends and that he had no idea Mike was directing, but he's just taken a drink from his water. Mike seems happy to explain though. “He... tied my shoe at a party.” 

 

And that? Not what Misha was expecting. Suddenly the familiarity makes sense. Prior to this moment, Misha had no idea what Michael Rosenbaum looked like. All he's seen is half the guys face, in a blurry phone picture on a three by two inch screen. Oh no, that's not where he remembers the face. Misha's pretty sure if he'd been on his knees when Mike waked in, he'd have recognized him instantly. 

 

_Jesus Christ_ , he thinks. He went down on Michael Rosenbaum. 

 

He spits, rather spectacular, across the table, and sputters. He can't form words -to busy choking- so instead, he pulls the monkey hat out of his pocket and jams it crookedly on his head. It's enough for Mike to make the connection, eyes going wide in his head. 

“ _Misha?!_ ” 

The meeting is appropriately awkward, and through a series of silent, pointed looks and aggressive gestures, Mike manages to get Adam to leave. Mike parks himself in the chair beside Misha and gives him a long, silent look. 

 

“So uh...this is...” Misha's not really sure how to end the sentence, because he's not really what this is, exactly. “You weren't there,” he blurts out, when all other words fail him. What the fuck is wrong with him?

 

“What?” Mike frowns and then flinches. “I went to get Jensen ice. I was gone maybe...maybe three minutes. And I waited because I wasn't sure I missed you, but you uh...you left with Jared and Jensen because you're Misha Collins.” 

 

Misha nods, feeling just as flabbergasted as Mike looks. “I don't even...how do things like this really happen?” 

 

Mike smiles, a little sly, a little curious. Misha remembers that smile. “You did come back though? To look for me?” 

 

Misha snorts, and fights the flush off his face. “Yeah, I did. And you waited for me.” 

 

“Yep.” He pops the the 'p' and the coughs, clearing his throat. “I uh...I uh...Fuck it. Clearly, we're not any better at this flirty shit sober than we are drunk. So....let's fast forward.” He lifts up his hand and forms two little mouths with his hands. “Hi, I'm Michael Rosenbaum, it's nice to finally meet you Misha Collins.” He flaps his mouth-hands like their talking as he goes. And then his voice changes, and it takes a moment for Misha to realize that Mike's pretending to be him. “Mutual, Michael Rosenbaum. Can I just tell you, I find you super attractive.”Misha snorts, and Mike gives him a grin. He goes back to Michael voice . “Is that so, Misha Collins? You're not to bad yourself.” He flashes Misha a wink. “ In fact, I'd like to make good on my invite and take you back to my place. I'm pretty sure your down with that. So, we should...we should go and do...that. ” 

 

He drops his hands and stares at Misha, as if waiting for an answer. 

 

Having never been propositioned via hand-puppets, Misha's not really sure what the suitable response is here.  _When in doubt, keep it simple._ He kisses Mike, letting his mouth do the talking without uttering one single word. He's not sure he could trust himself to speak anyway. So, Misha just grabs him by the front of his shirt and licks his way into Mike's mouth. But then he stops because their on set, in a back room and Misha's really not that kind of girl. “This is all a little bit to casting-couch for me,” he says with a chagrined smile. “Those hot pockets still on offer?” 

 

Later that evening, while they're laying naked and sweaty in Micheal’s bed, hot pockets warm on their laps and wearing nothing but their hats, Misha laughs, and fumbles for the nearest phone (it's Mikes, on the floor, in his pocket, where Misha tore his pants off). “We should let the Jay's know we finally met,” he says. In his mind, he's running through several innuendo's he could slip into a test message. 

 

Mike follows suit, tugging the owl hat over his sexed-up sex hair. “Oh good thinking. They'll be thrilled, I'm sure.” He takes the phone from Misha's hands, flipping it around. The camera light flashes while Misha is still smiling a little confusedly. 

 

“Did you just----” He grabs at the phone, dislodging his hot pocket as he lunges for Mike. It's to late, his phone chimes, letting him know the picture message has been sent. Damage done, Mike hands it to him easily. Sure enough, their they are in all their naked, be-hatted glory. “You forgot to send it to Tom.” 

 

Mike takes the phone back wordlessly, and sends the message again, before dropping it on the mattress between them. Curious, Misha picks it up and frowns. “Who's Julie?” 

 

With a grin, Mike picks up the abused hot pocket off the blanket -it's got so many other stains at this point, a little sauce isn't going to hurt it- and takes a big bite. “My mother.” 

 

 

And that's how Mike and Misha met. The end. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
